


Weaving Fate from Threads of Lead

by Bazylia_de_Grean



Series: Light, Smoke and Mirrors [10]
Category: Dark Tower - Stephen King
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-05
Updated: 2017-11-05
Packaged: 2019-01-29 15:42:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12634119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bazylia_de_Grean/pseuds/Bazylia_de_Grean
Summary: “That’s why you were looking for me? To ask about my name?”“No. All I need to know is how stupid it sounds.”Marten smiles, amused and not offended in the slightest. Which does seem offensive to her, judging by the way a spark ignites in her eyes; like fire on gunpowder. That is neither his nor her late mother’s, but hers and hers alone.





	Weaving Fate from Threads of Lead

The metal is spinning between his fingers, up and down and across, again and again, in infinite circles. Not unlike a glass ball; just that the latter enables people to see, while the former takes their sight away forever.

“Where did you get that bullet?” Aileen frowns, looking at the gleaming cartridge. Her eyes follow the flashing, hypnotic pattern with apprehension, but also curiosity.

“Does Cort know you’re running with Roland again, young lady?” he asks with a smirk.

Most people would be asleep by now, but she’s just concentrating harder, trying to figure out where the magic is. Even Roland is dizzy, though it is not the first time he asked Marten to teach him hypnosis. But she is wide-awake and slightly disappointed there is no visible effect. Seeing just a little deeper, a little further than most people do. That observation makes him smile.

“Does the _dinh_ know you’re teaching his son magic?” she retorts, putting both hands on her hips, trying to look intimidating. She just looks funny... but she’s not backing away, not afraid of him, like most children. That itself tells a lot about her.

“Actually, he does.” Marten laughs. “And he agreed. Can you say the same of your uncle?” He wonders if she will take the bait; and indeed, she is bristling, looking like a small and awkward but very fierce kitten.

“Actually, I can,” she shoots back, mimicking his tone and manner perfectly, as if it was in her blood. “And I have a name, wizard. Use it.”

“Names have to be earned, girl.” He stops moving his fingers, and the bullet land in the middle of his palm and disappears into thin air.

Roland shakes his head and rubs at his eyes, waking, slowly regaining full consciousness. “I’ll never get the hang of it,” he mutters, unaware of the short talk he missed entirely.

“You will.” Marten says, and carefully ponders that for a while.

Steven Deschain will certainly ask about his son’s results... and forbid next lessons, should his son prove too susceptible to this trick. And to make his plan work, Marten needs to learn more about the boy. Not by hypnosis; he doesn’t need that. Simply by talking to him, watching him. Observation is the basic tool and ingredient of all magic.

“Maybe you’ll make progress more quickly if you try getting more sleep at night, instead of sneaking out to ballrooms past your bedtime,” he advises with a wink.

Roland is clearly uncomfortable, but doesn’t look away or doesn’t blush. Aileen glances at him, silently asking a question, but he ignores her.

Marten smiles knowingly. Let the boy realize that he sees more than Roland thinks, that being Steven Deschain’s son doesn’t mean all of Gilead will dance to his tune. But first and foremost, let Roland think that Marten isn’t afraid of being spied on, that he has nothing to hide. Because right now, he doesn’t. Not yet.

Roland prefers to ignore him and turns to Aileen. “Your uncle won’t be looking for you?”

She huffs; what an impatient little thing she is sometimes. But she can be patient, too, when she needs to be. Marten used to be like her, long ago. A very, very long time ago.

“If he doesn’t know where I am, doesn’t it mean I’m doing the sneaking out part right, at least?” Her verbal jab is almost reflexive, made without thinking. She always feels the need to fight, for everything; that is something he can understand.

Roland seems a bit hurt by her angry reply; it must have struck home. Amusing that her words are true – she _is_ better gunslinger material than Roland or any of his friends. Fiercer, more spirited, stronger – in mind, if not in body. More perceptive. Smarter.

A pity, Marten thinks briefly. People like her always burn out first. She will, too; he cannot guess her fate, and isn’t interested enough to scry or draw cards to read her future, but it is apparent she will die well before her time. But she will die fighting, and that is something he can almost appreciate.

Aileen makes a face at Roland – they are still kids at heart, clinging to the last shreds of childhood the world has been ripping from their hands for years already – and gets up, obviously irritated by her friend’s question. Marten isn’t sure whether he finds it more amusing or disappointing that Roland’s opinion matters to her so much, despite her attempts at convincing herself otherwise. Really, for her, of all girls, to have a crush on the young Deschain... Not that he cares, except for the entertainment value of that predicament – especially if it would turn into something more serious in a few years, and Roland would reciprocate – but he expected better of her.

She notices his appraising stare and narrows her eyes.

“You’re both such pleasant company,” she says sourly. Looks at Marten and shrugs, as if she didn’t care for his tricks at all. “And your magic isn’t working, anyway, wizard. Broken your staff?” she asks, then turns and leaves, chased by his merry laughter.

His magic is working fine; in her, too. That is what makes her immune to hypnosis, that is what makes her so persistent. She could be an asset to him... but all her commendable qualities also mean she will be immune to all forms of persuasion he could use, because she was raised to believe in the credo of gunslingers.

Marten is well aware that her uncle doesn’t trust him – has never trusted him – doesn’t like him, sometimes even low-key hates him. He shrugs it off and laughs, which only infuriates Cort even more.

But the best revenge – no, not that, vengeance is something one has to _earn_ , and Cort doesn’t deserve that honor – is what no one else knows. Marten doesn’t need them to; it is enough that he knows and laughs at them all. Some people gossip, of course, and many of her peers jest with that uninhibited, innocent cruelty only children are capable of; but who would believe gossip-mongers or a child?

It is entirely possible even Aileen’s mother hadn’t been sure herself. Her husband had been away, she had been bored and a bit lonely and very curious. And just as hot-tempered as her foul brother, but fortunately infinitely more good-looking. They had met just a few times, and while it was fun – the curious ones always are – she had never been even a plaything; merely a momentary distraction during an otherwise rather dull time, a small joke at the expense of her brother. Marten still smiles inwardly every time Cort talks reverently of his younger sister, wholeheartedly believing she had been a model wife and an incarnation of all merit.

Well, she had had _some_ merit, that much is true. And some potential; her daughter is a proof of that. Marten doesn’t think of the girl as his – he wasn’t planning that, it was simply the nature taking its course, because he didn’t care enough to prevent that – and why would he think of her at all, if he considered remembering her mother’s name an unnecessary nuisance? It took but such a miniscule, insignificant part of him, less than a drop – why would he even bother with something so trifle?

The girl’s mother might have not been sure, because her husband returned only a few days later, and wasn’t gone for very long, and Gilead medics had no means to tell her, even if she’d asked. Which of course she hadn’t. But Marten has magic, and he knew; not from the beginning, but from the first time he saw the infant girl. He kept glancing at her occasionally, to make sure her father – Marten has never thought of himself that way – that her father never learned the truth, and that there would never be more than gossip of bored old women. Because if there had been more, it might have endangered his plans. It was not too late to rectify that mistake – not for him – yet he didn’t. It would have only caused more problems, with people’s annoying habit of asking after missing children and looking for them, and he couldn’t have risked that, not so soon after disposing of Henry Deschain.

But he learned from that slip-up, and was more careful with his next lovers. Fortunately, Aileen’s mother had chosen well – she had instinct, at least, if not much wisdom – her husband was dark-haired, too, and there was no reason anyone would suspect the girl wasn’t his. That was the extent of Marten’s interest; why would he care for a non-magical child, anyway?

Now, looking at the twelve-year-old Aileen Ritter who wants to be a gunslinger, not a proper lady like her mother or like lovely Gabrielle, he thinks that maybe there is some promise to her, too, and that he could use her to his advantage. Steven Deschain has considered a marriage between her and his son. And wouldn’t that be the best joke of all, if that girl who’s a Ritter by name but a Broadcloak by blood one day became lady Deschain? Marten finds the thought infinitely amusing.

That will probably never come to be, because Gilead will fall long before that time. But if Farson failed, that would ensure Marten’s plan would not. There are always many roads leading to the same goal. Some just require more patience… but are often more rewarding. Not this one, though; he will gladly see Steven Deschain dead. But if that failed, there would be a way out. He knows all about ways out. And ways in. And shadowed corners.

* * *

 

She sneaks on him in the garden, where he is trying to replicate the smell of roses by magic. It is not difficult, but there is something peculiar about the scent of Gilead roses, as if the very earth and air and water were different here. Perhaps they are. Not for long, though; just a few years more.

Marten has to admit that she is better than the boys in sneaking, too. Used to hiding in shadows, because it’s not customary for a girl to be a gunslinger, and even if Cort agreed to teach her a few things, she can’t exactly boast about it to anyone.

He doesn’t look up, just snaps his fingers suddenly; they make no sound, and an instant later the sound appears just over the girl’s shoulder, where she is crouched on the top of what remains of an old wall. In the corner of his eye he notices that she jerks, but doesn’t fall off. When he turns, she hisses at him like an angry cat.

“Not funny, wizard.”

“Wasn’t supposed to be,” he replies calmly. “Will it teach you not to sneak on magicians, I wonder?”

“How else one is supposed to shoot them, if not from concealment?” she throws back at him.

Marten laughs. He could like her; she’s perceptive enough to be truly amusing.

“Guns have to be earned, young lady,” he reminds, calling her a lady just to irritate her, to see her temper flare.

“Like names?” One of her eyebrows goes up briefly; it feels weird, like looking into a distorted mirror. “Care to share how you earned yours?”

“Perhaps another day,” he answers, narrowing his eyes a little; but she doesn’t look into a mirror often enough to notice the likeness of such small gestures. “That’s why you were looking for me? To ask about my name?”

“No.” She starts dangling her legs a little, as if she was sitting on a swing that only moved halfway. “All I need to know is how stupid it sounds.”

Marten smiles, amused and not offended in the slightest. Which does seem offensive to her, judging by the way a spark ignites in her eyes; like fire on gunpowder. That is neither his nor her late mother’s, but hers and hers alone.

“Maybe it’s just my way of sneaking,” he suggests. “Hiding behind a name that makes people laugh at its owner.”

“That’s...” She frowns, as if that notion was something that’s never occurred to her before. “That might be pretty smart,” she admits reluctantly. Her hands push against the stones and she jumps down gracefully. “Are you? Sneaking?”

Marten keeps smiling. “Would I tell you if I was?”

“I don’t know.” She shrugs. “Your tricks don’t work,” she adds after a short pause.

“Pardon?”

“That’s what I came here for. To tell you your tricks don’t work.” There’s a proud, defiant look on her face. “Not on me.”

“Hypnosis isn’t a magic trick”, he explains. “Not quite.” He looks into her eyes, the stare long enough to make her uncomfortable, because that’s when people betray most about themselves. “But they probably wouldn’t.” He winks. “That’s a good start, when planning to shoot a magician, my little gunslinger.”

She stares at him, mouth agape. No one else has ever called her that before, not even her beloved uncle. Marten knows; he can hear almost as well and far as he can see.

“Is it true what gossip says?” she asks, suddenly too serious for a girl of twelve; suddenly serious like a grown woman. “Are you my father?”

That silences him for a while, the smile frozen on his face; he didn’t expect she would be _that_ bold. Well, like father, like daughter, he supposes. Her mother had never been shy, either.

“Why would you think that?” he asks indifferently, not changing his expression, still smiling in the same way, as if they were talking about weather or something equally insignificant. Because for him, it is.

“People talk sometimes,” she grumbles. “And Cuthbert never stops teasing me.” Impatiently, she gestures towards her pale face and dark hair and dark eyes, which make her similar to her parents – but to him as well, and he’s still alive while her parents are dead. There is contained frustration in her moves, anger showing in the way she grits her teeth together – the anger of an abandoned child. Ah, so that’s what it is. Still not over her parents’ death. Fine; she can take it out on him, if she wants; of all the people she could have chosen, he is the only one that won’t be moved by it.

“Don’t you think you’d be more in tune with magic if I were?” he asks, giving her the logical argument instead of invoking the memory of her parents, in a voice of someone infinitely bored with such a preposterous assumption. “Don’t you think you’d be a magician, not a wannabe-gunslinger who’s so tough on the outside while still dreaming of becoming a lady? That’s how you want to earn that name, mhm? You think that if you’re good with guns, you’ll be lady Deschain one day?”

She stares at him in shock; she must have heard the rumor he can read thoughts, but probably never believed it. Not that anyone would need magic to read the thoughts of a girl her age.

And then she spits. “Go to hell.”

If she was older, Marten would say he has already been there. Instead, he smiles. “That, my dear, is a very strong curse. Not befitting either a gunslinger or a lady.”

She grins; it’s brief and cold and predatory. “I’m neither. Yet.” She turn and starts walking away, and then she pauses and looks at him over her shoulder. “One day, I will be both. You’ll see, wizard.” Her voice is calm, clear and strong, but there is a glint of wetness in her eyes. Tears of disappointment, perhaps? Poor, naive little thing, thinking having a terrible father is preferable to not having one at all.

There is a glimpse, broken images like shards of a mirror, and that startles him enough to swallow any possible reply. Guns. Blood. Her curse coming back to haunt her. She is both still a child she used to be and a woman she will never become, Marten realizes. Such a waste.

He watches her until she walks into the castle and disappears in the shadows at the gates.

When Gilead falls, her death will be swift. He will see to it. A small mercy he wouldn’t normally bother with – but well, she is his flesh and blood, after all.


End file.
